Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

The world twisted.

Above them, God Venthros began to change.

The once-humanoid god warped into something beyond mortal comprehension. Blackened wings unfurled from his back like veils of night, vast enough to blot out the heavens. Flames spewed from every crevice of his cracked black flesh, racing along glowing red fissures like molten veins. His skull grinned widely beneath a crown of infernal light. He went from a 10-feet-tall (3 meters) being to a towering creature of over 100 feet (30 meters).

He was no longer a mere god.

He was a moving, breathing catastrophe.

And then, he spoke.

He didn’t use language or sound to convey his thoughts. He didn’t need to do so.

Instead, his very will slammed into the world like a divine apocalypse in the form of a pulsing, thunderous explosion of sentient malice.

“I am the End You Fled From. I am the Flame You Chained and Now Burn For. Kneel, and I shall make your deaths worthy.”

But he didn’t speak into the ears.

He spoke into the soul.

Into blood. Bone. Thought. Memory.

A few dozen warriors from Nalai’s personal army—elite guards, battle-hardened veterans, proud cultivators who had stood tall through war and siege—still lingered on the periphery, those who hadn’t been butchered by Serika’s earlier outburst.

The sight of this being did not create feelings of awe and wonderment in any of them.

Instead, what they felt was nothing but pure, unfiltered madness.

Some froze with their eyes wide and leaking blood, mouths twitching in silent screams as their minds collapsed inward, unable to process what they were seeing.

Others began frothing at the mouth, convulsing on the ground with their limbs snapping in unnatural spasms as they bit into their tongues and choked on blood and bile.

One man pissed himself and ran screaming into the distance, tearing at his armor, screaming at the sky to take the voices away. His screams ended moments later, interrupted by a sickening crunch as he dove headfirst into a wall of rock at a cultivator’s high velocity, making his skull split open like a watery fruit.

Another began to laugh. High-pitched. Unnatural. He clawed at his own face, ripping chunks of flesh from his cheeks as he screamed,

“He’s inside me! Inside!! He’s INSIDE!!!!!”

Then he bit into his own wrist, gnawing with raw desperation, chewing through flesh and tendon until his fingers went limp and dropped from his mutilated hand.

And worse still…

Some dropped their weapons and knelt, not in worship… but in defeat, with their spirits shattering like glass.

Their eyes were hollow, their mouths slack open. Some began to bash their own skulls into the ground, over and over and over again.

Until only red remained.

Until there was nothing left.

…

What was once a disciplined war host was now a scattered chorus of insanity and horror. Some ran. Some clawed their own eyes out. Some simply stood, whispering prayers to gods that would not answer.

Because in the presence of this thing…

This twisted, unholy monstrosity…

There was no room for faith.

Only madness.

…

But unlike the soldiers, not one of the four Spirit Tempering stage cultivators faltered.

They stood there, unmoved beneath his apocalyptic form.

Because they had already tempered their hearts in the crucible of Spirit. Their Still Hearts had protected them from going mad at seeing his form.

Absolute Calm kept them from crumbling beneath that divine voice.

Enhanced Focus sharpened every breath, every thought.

Flow State coiled within their limbs, waiting to be triggered.

Danger Foresight whispered the warning: ‘This… is only the beginning.’

Emotional Modulation smothered fear, buried awe, and left only clarity.

They stared up with grim expressions, not of despair nor madness, but of recognition.

Every single one of them could tell that the final battle had begun.

But just then, a burst of light shot forth from their side.

Quinlan.

His form streaked through the sky like a comet, his eyes fixed on the looming monstrosity before them. Flames, wind, earth, and water wreathed around him in chaotic harmony. His saber shone with its pitch-black body, reflecting the monster’s flames in a mesmerizing show of illumination.

He didn’t hesitate.

He didn’t wait for orders or hold a strategy meeting.

He didn’t weigh odds before exploding into action.

Quinlan launched himself straight at the chest of the towering god.

From behind, Serika’s eyes widened. For a moment, the fire in her heart softened.

A gentle smile crept across her lips.

She whispered, “Quinlan…”

Then she leapt after him, her flaming cloak billowing like the wings of a phoenix, chasing the path carved by the youth she once trained, and now followed.

The two older men—Rykar and Rongtai—watched the duo ascend like bolts of divine rebellion.

They shared a look.

A sigh.

A weary shake of the head.

“…Kids these days,” Rykar muttered.

“…Always going for the face,” Rongtai replied.

But before they could move, a flash of motion became visible beside them.

“Hey, wrinkly grandpas!”

Feng Jiai, the teenage girl in the Meridian Formation stage, stood panting and wide-eyed. She hurled two glowing elixirs at them.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but I can tell those limbs of yours aren’t moving like they used to.”

The pair of old men caught the bottles midair while blinking in surprise.

“…” Rykar grunted with his lips twitching in bemusement.

“…Much appreciated, young lady,” Rongtai added dryly.

But before they uncorked the medicine, their eyes flicked toward the girl who had thrown them. Feng, the weak girl who always stood near Quinlan. His unimportant sidekick, based on his words. His paramount caretaker, according to her words.

Feng’s shoulders were trembling, her jaw clenched, and her eyes were wide but lucid.

She was still standing.

Dozens of cultivators stronger than her—men and women with centuries of combat experience under their belts—had fallen like wheat under the god’s aura, reduced to frothing wrecks, suicidal husks, or gibbering madmen. And yet here she was: breathing hard, yes. Sweating, shaking. But not broken.

Rykar tilted his head slightly, studying her with narrowed eyes. “Curious.”

Rongtai’s brows lifted as he exhaled through his nose. “Mm. Barely at the Meridian Opening stage, yet she’s still sane.”

They exchanged a silent glance.

There was no time for theorizing; both of them understood it perfectly. As such, they mentally shrugged, each coming to the same conclusion:

She’s his companion. Of course, she’s not normal.

Both downed the medicine in one gulp, feeling how the pungent brew burned its way down their throats. In an instant, they felt it:

Warm qi surged through their meridians.

Their backs straightened as decades of weariness peeled away like old bark. Bones cracked and aligned. The leaden weight of age lifted from their limbs.

And then, they moved.

But unlike their juniors, they did not seek spectacle or grandeur.

There were no roars of defiance. No spiraling elemental displays.

They moved low, sliding through smoke and chaos like shadows at dawn, two ancient predators slipping beneath notice. Every step was sharp, silent, and surgical.

Their target was not the face, nor the flame-wreathed wings. Not the crown of godhood or the thundering voice that spoke directly into their minds.

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